


Morning light

by Elisexyz



Series: Whumptober 2019 (Black Sails) [8]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Blood, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-05 19:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21214004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: It would be funny if Thomas weren’t so close to having an heart attack.





	Morning light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Secret Injury" prompt in the Whumptober 2019 event.  
  
It's technically part of my series about Thomas and James post-finale, but it can be read as a stand-alone.

Thomas wakes up at a later hour than usual, the sun filtering through the curtains and shining right on his face. He’s thrown off for a moment, before he remembers that he stayed up until late last night, in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt at being still up for James’ return.

His eyes still half-closed and his mind clouded with sleep, he smiles slightly when he’s reassured by the sleeping figure next to him, and he rolls over in his direction, thinking that it’s already late, he might as well take some more time from this morning.

The feeling of the damp sheets under his skin makes him frown in confusion, jolting him awake in the exact moment his eyes focus on the _red_ surrounding him.

“What the—?” he mutters, his heart jumping in his throat as he scrambles to sit up, his eyes wide open, the fog quickly blinked away. He soon realizes that half their bed is covered in blood, and that it’s definitely not coming from _him_.

“James?” he calls out, reaching for his shoulder and finding with absolute horror that his shirt is even worse off than the sheets. “James! Wake up!”

Much to his relief, James sleepily grunts something as an answer, blinking back into the realm of the living and looking very confused at all the yelling. Thomas sucks in a deep breath, squeezing James’ shoulder and leaning on him for a second, the panic sucking energy out of him as it dissipates.

“What’s wrong?” James asks, slurring a little and frowning at him in concern.

Concern from the _bleeding man in his bed_. It would be funny if Thomas weren’t so close to having an heart attack.

“What’s wrong with _me_?” he echoes, disbelieving. “You are _bleeding_, I—are you okay? What the hell happened?”

James frowns at him, considering his words for a few moments before he pushes himself up on his elbows, taking a quick look at the sheets and his shirt before groaning and falling back on the mattress. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his face with one hand. Unfortunately for him, that just gets blood on his face too. “Sorry.”

Thomas has a lot of things that he wants to say, half being curses, the other half being frantic questions about what exactly happened and what the stupid, absolutely _insane_ man that he lives with was thinking in that pretty head of his when he just went to bed without saying anything, but he swallows everything, shaking his head once before all but jumping off the bed.

“Don’t move, I’m getting—something to clean you up.” He moves to the door, then he stops. “_Don’t move_,” he remarks, more firmly.

James snorts, staying right where he is, lying on his back. “Don’t worry, the room’s moving enough already,” he says, which is a terrible sign and makes Thomas run out of the room like there’s fire up his arse.

He considers just running on the street barefoot and getting to the doctor’s house, or getting someone to go to the doctor for him, but he isn’t going to set a foot out of the house until he has tended to James at least enough to make sure that he isn’t going to _die_ on him.

God, there was enough blood on that bed to kill any man twice.

In the kitchen, he notices bloody clothes stashed in a corner, probably James’ attempt at being _discreet_ the previous night, but he barely pays them any attention, getting a bowl of water and bandaging equipment instead.

When he comes back, James seems to be napping, which makes his stomach clench in panic once again. “James!” he calls out, completely failing at not giving the appearance of someone who is freaking out.

James blinks, offering a small smile. “Awake and alive,” he declares.

_For now_, Thomas wants to say. _Until I _kill_ you_.

He gets James to sit up, grimacing when he has to remove the blood-soaked shirt.

“Well, this one’s ruined,” James mutters, oddly disappointed given that there are much more pressing concerns at the moment. Namely, whatever that _monstrosity_ that Thomas finds wrapped around his torso is supposed to be.

“What’s _this_?” he asks, his tone more than a little accusatory. He is no expert, but he is sure he could have done better one-handed.

James shrugs. “It was late—I was tired—I did what I could, alright?”

Thomas supposes that’s fair. And the crappy bandage is actually the least of the problems that he has with this whole situation. “Why didn’t you _wake_ me?” he protests, while beginning to unwrap the so-called bandage.

“It was late—and it’s just a cut, I’m fine—”

“Tell that to our bed,” Thomas says, with a pointed look at the sheets and then back at him.

James stares at him for a few moments, like struck by something, then he snorts, shaking his head slightly and giving him a look of affectionate amusement.

“God, that’s Miranda’s face, you look the same,” he comments.

Thomas’ stomach sinks for a moment, the way it seems to do whenever his wife is mentioned, then he feels the urge to start laughing too, because he knows exactly what kind of face James is referring to, and he’s been on the receiving end of it more times than he can count.

“Good, let’s hope that it will scare you into compliance,” he says instead.

“I’m cooperating,” James protests, a little offended. For a while, that’s it, Thomas trying to clean him up as best as he can and trying to chase away the fear still creeping up under his skin, his hands not as firm as they probably ought to be while doing something like this.

It’s when he has completed his best approximation of a functional bandage that he resolves to ask: “Now, can you tell me what _happened_?”

James has a temper, that is no mystery, Thomas has always been aware of that, even back in London. Now he also has a decade of experience as a feared pirate captain to colour his actions, but he has been keeping an exceptionally low profile, only letting out _glimpses_ of the scary man that he can be, on rare occasions.

The thought that someone from his former life might have found them flashes into his head, but in that case James would have probably been freaked out enough that he would have woken him up and made him pack his things, even had he killed the assailant.

“Believe it or not, it wasn’t my fault,” James sighs, tiredly rubbing his face with one hand. There’s still blood everywhere, Thomas should probably have him get up, so he can clean it up—or more realistically, he is going to move James somewhere else and then proceed to hover around him until he’s satisfied that everything is alright, sheets be damned.

“How so?” he prompts.

“It was some drunk—I think he mistook me for someone else.” James shrugs, grimacing a little when he does so.

Thomas’ fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach out, curling his hand into a loose fist and feeling a little sick when he realizes that it’s slick from blood.

“I left him by the side of the road, someone probably found him—and he had a knife, he was sloppy but not that much,” James concludes. There’s a note of fear in his voice, a tentative look on his face that says: _I didn’t kill him, please, don’t be afraid of me_.

In all honesty, at the moment Thomas is more inclined to track down the man and get in a fist fight himself, thoughts of what could have happened because some idiot was carrying around a knife while drunk out of his mind roaming through his head.

He sighs, offering a small smile that he hopes is comforting. He shouldn’t be feeling so drained this early in the day.

“Perhaps I should get the doctor,” he says, although he can guess what the reaction will be.

“It’s fine,” James replies, predictably. “Just—I’ll just drink some water and take a nap.”

The idea sends a jolt of fear through Thomas, and it must show plainly on his face, because James immediately takes notice, his expression softening.

“You can wake me up every now and then if it makes you feel better,” he suggests, gently. “I am alright, I promise. I’ve had _way_ worse.”

Thomas snorts. “That isn’t as reassuring as you seem to think it is,” he has to say, though in all honesty the idea of leaving the house makes him more anxious than trusting James’ word on this. “Just—will you just wake me, next time? It was a terrible surprise to wake up to.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He pauses, pressing his lips together. “I didn’t think it’d keep on bleeding.”

“Just wake me up no matter what,” Thomas remarks. Though the next time that James won’t be home before dark, he will probably pace up and down the house for hours to keep himself awake, if need be.

“Alright,” James agrees. He sounds sincere enough, and at the sight of his tired and a bit apologetic smile Thomas feels his shoulders become a little lighter.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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